Chapter 1

                                    

                                          
TW: self-harm
Dripping.  Crimson red, dripping.  I watched as the blood slid down my arm onto the grubby tile floor, fascinated.  
Blood was such an interesting liquid; you couldn't see it under your skin, yet it was such a vibrant red as it exited your body. 
Just like people.  You can't see what they're like until they get close to you, then their true colors show.  
I wonder if that's what happened with my mom and her boyfriend.  Benny was so kind, so caring when they were dating. 
He would buy me ice cream, something my 11 year-old self rejoiced in.  He took us on day trips, into New York City or out to Niagara Falls for an afternoon. 
Now?  My treat was beatings.  Our day trips out turned into nightmarish days in.  
It's funny, she was the one who married him, yet I'm the one who is left to pick up the pieces.  She was, dare I say, lucky to die of a car accident two months after marrying him. 
He didn't give me a chance to grieve.  I instead got thrust into a new hell.  I took over all of Mom's responsibilities in the house.  And I do mean all.  I cooked, cleaned, and did other necessary duties.  
Funnily enough, this wasn't from him.  He made sure to hurt me in places no one would see: stomach, thighs, back.  Whatever would be covered up by a shirt or pants was fair game.  
No, this was from me.  I like to scratch my arms until they go raw and form a scab, then pick at that scab until it bleeds. 
It's satisfying and people don't ask as many questions as they would with multiple straight cuts.  I don't know why I still do it; I really should stop. 
Mom wouldn't want this for me.  I don't want this for me, I'm just especially missing Mom today.  It's been exactly 5 years since she died, and I can't even get to her grave to say hi.
I just have too many emotions and no way to get them out.  No way to express the rage and sadness I'm feeling.  Seeing blood leak out is kind of like letting my emotions out.  
I pushed myself off the bathroom floor and wearily made my way over to the sink.  Thank God for school. 
If I was stuck at home all day with Benny, I don't know what I'd do.  After washing off the cut and patting my arm dry with a paper towel, staining it red, I shoved the door open and walked back to AP Calculus.  Yay for limits and derivatives.  
I couldn't tell if I was lucky or unlucky that it was my second to last class; on the upside, my last class was Latin. 
Downside, I have to figure out how to get through basketball practice with my ribs the way they are.  
Benny decided his dinner wasn't good enough and punished me for it.  I don't see what's wrong with pan-fried steak and mashed potatoes, but whatever.  
As I pushed open the door to the calculus classroom, all eyes were on me.  Mr. Spone glanced over at me.  "Ahh, you're back Ms. Amoretti.  Please sit down."  I slid into my seat and pulled out my notes on limits.  
I freaking love Latin.  Not a lot of people can say that, but our teacher makes it so easy. 
She understands mental health and struggles, so it's easier for me to get extensions for assignments. 
I walked into her small classroom with a genuine smile on my face; she always made me feel happy.  
"Hi Ms. North!"
"Hey sweetie!  How are you today?"  My smile faltered, but I fixed it before she could notice. 
"I'm doing ok," she frowned at my quiet answer, but I couldn't bring myself to fake enthusiasm around her.